Storm Called Poem by Peter Morton

My grand daughter lets the
curtain fall back in place,
wondering out loud who in
their right mind would
go out in weather like this,

but I already have
my boots on,
the yellow square of
door light closing
behind me as I step into the
silent thickness of the nor'easter,

solitary witness to the storm,
the snow quietly
filling Coburn Park,
muffling the lone car that drives past,
dimming street lights,
sifting like powdered sugar
onto eager gingerbread,

falling, falling, deep
and fast, my footprints no
longer audible in this
lesser silence, the one
before the greater that
tiptoes into my presence.